A Thousand Small Victories

It is the melancholy season,
the season of loss,
of love remembered and lost,
of parents loved and lost,
of times without the black demons, armed and dangerous,
lost.

The skies go grey.

It is the melancholy season,
Where hunkered inside, you see less
of neighbors and sunshine.

It is too easy to surrender,
to allow numbness its victory
frostbite of the soul.

too easy to surrender,
to join the breathing dead who have gone before you,
stiff and lost.

But not today.
For strength does not come from surrender.
Joy does not rise from surrender.
Surrender has no meaning,

only the battle,
only the thousand small victories become fire,
enough to burn the melancholy away
and give meaning to the loss.